


This Is Better Than Reality TV

by sherrybelmont



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherrybelmont/pseuds/sherrybelmont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JackPitch — A peek into the life of Pitch Black and Jack Frost.  For two inhumanly old beings, there is a lot of adolescent immaturity—and Bogeymen in aprons.  With leg slits. </p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Better Than Reality TV

**Author's Note:**

> This piece of fine literature is **dedicated** to the snarkiest, sassiest Jack Frost I have ever had the misfortune of meeting: [windtakemehome](http://windtakemehome.tumblr.com/). If you're interested in RotG roleplay blogs and like fantastic serious writing interspersed with ridiculous, illegible crack posts—by all means, follow her.
> 
> Also, some of this was written by her. Most of it was written by me, though.
> 
> There is profanity. I apologize for not being able to find better words to describe that cocky annoyance. In my humble opinion, the ones I've chosen suffice. Also there is drinking. And implied sex. Lots of implied sex. We can’t write without it.
> 
> For best results, read in Jude Law and Chris Pine's voices. Thank you.
> 
> I don’t own **Rise of the Guardians**.
> 
>  
> 
> [x-posted to ffn.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9010358/1/This-Is-Better-Than-Reality-TV)

ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛ⁞×

[ _This Is Better Than Reality TV_ ]

⁞

There have been rumours circulating recently that Jack Frost and I have been...living together.

... _HA_!  AHAhaha—that's rich.

I'm really sorry—no I'm not—but that's a  _really_  stupid question.

Let me tell you why.

I'm going to paint you a picture.

There is a disgustingly picturesque home on the outskirts of some suburban town, probably—let's just say, since that little shit is so emotionally attached to the place—Burgess.

(For the record, I will be referring to a "little shit" rather often.  Please note that I'm referring to the pest known as Jack Frost.)

It's a humble two-storey home, windows all around and a single garage just big enough for...oh, a dozen Fearlings.  The lawn is perpetually snow-covered, even in the midst of the sweltering summer months.

Do you see where I'm going here?

 _Would never happen_.

...but if it did, here's how it would go.

It would have started while we were drunk.

I'm serious.  Jack would have been piss drunk and I would have been...on the worse side of “slightly tipsy”.  I wish I could say that, as a result, neither of us would have remembered a thing.  Unfortunately there is—would be—damning evidence somewhere on the Internet.

I figure you'd better get the right story.

One winter night at around four in the morning, Jack stumbled home, completely drunk.  I was apparently at his home—why?  I can’t even remember.  But I had access to his alcohol and I had apparently decided that it would have been a great idea to get intoxicated myself.

Jack was doing some sort of convoluted...dance move?  Winter spirit mating ritual?  I have no clue, but I thought it was the funniest shit I’d ever seen.  I was on my way to tipsy, remember?

“I love this,” I laughed.

“I love _yiou_ ,” he paused and scrunched up his face, “Hahaha exsepet not.”

“Well, that’s okay because I don’t _need_ your love!  I don’t need it, you hear?” I shrieked, “I don’t cry myself to sleep every night because you don’t love me.  Not even!”

He blinked.  “Shhh it’s okay, let me ju—” he cleared his throat, “I WANT YOUR LOVE AN’ YOUR LOVE ’N’ REVENGER.  YOU AN’ ME COULD HAVE A BAAAD ROMANCEEEEEE.”

“…no.  It’s not okay.  It’s really not.  Because my _ears are bleeding sand now_.”  Somewhere in my mind, I wondered if I were dreaming.  “R...really?”

Jack cackled, “No I lied.  I’m in love wi’ m’self.  I mean, lookat me.”

“No I refuse to look because—because…LAST CHRISTMAS I GAVE YOU MY HEART, BUT THE VERY NEXT DAY YOU GAVE IT AWAYY.”  I took another gulp of whatever filled the bottle in my hand.

“FINE I DIDN' WAN’ YOUR BAD ROMANCE ANYWAY.”

At this point I must have realised that we were at the point of no return.

“No Jack, s-stop,” I hiccupped, “I nee’ to sleep or I might stay up ‘nother hour.  I might be in a prom dress by then.  Do you know what you’re condemning me to?!”

Jack stopped and looked at me.  “Oh my _God_ , you beautiful prisnesssss.  _Shh_ blet me…”  He searched for the right words.  “Let down yer hair so I can climb tha’ shit like a tree.”

“You liarrr, y’said you’d never call me by that name again—”  At this point he was actually trying to climb.  “…stop.  Stop trying to climb on me.  Jack.”

He continued, unperturbed.  “I lie only fer youuu.  I’s like that Britney Spears song.  Shhh I’m gonna clim’ up on you so _hard_.”

“...kinky.  You kinky.”

“Oh ho _ho_.  Well, if i’s like that I’ll hnn...get in the whip.”  (I’m fairly sure he meant “get the whip”.)

“Only if you promise not to laugh like Santa while we explore the uses of the whip,” I said.  “Wait.  You said it was my turn to use it next.  Did you lie again?”

I’m going to interrupt the story to tell you that he had promised no such thing and to this day, I still don’t know what we’d had to drink.

Anyway, Jack, in his alcohol-induced stupor, played along.  Or believed me.

“I can’t _help_ it, it just happens.  Ho ho _ho_...yes I lied, _fine_.  Jus’ _get ta th’fucking bed_.”

“Fine!” I threw my hands in the air, “Fuck, Jack!  You’re so se—ses—sexually d’manding!  I don’t know _why_ I put up with _you_ and your _lies_.”

He grimaced in reply.  “Well, let keh _out itnbtisn one_!”

“...you’re becoming more—more unintelligible than usual.  I’m gonna take that as th’go ahead to start squirming around like ’m havin’ a seizure in bed now.”

I am not proud of anything that happened that night.  Just so you know.  We were still in his kitchen at that point.

“As long s’it doesn’t keep the person ‘n top of me from being on top of me, I don’t give a fuck.”  I puffed my chest out.  “ _I’m the Bogeyman_.”

Jack squinted in my direction. “Why—why do I like you?”

“...t’be quite honest, I don’ kn-know, either.”

He considered it.  “I’s the legg slit ’mnot gonna lie.”

Apparently that was an acceptable answer to me; I yelled while stumbling towards his hallway, “ALL RIGHT THE CLOTHES ARE COMING OFF.  JACK, THE CLOTHES—THEY’RE COMING OFF!  And then maybe the shower is an option.”

I heard him follow behind me.

“I mean, you better turn tha’ shit on _cold_ b’cause oth’wise I’m gonna beat yer ass and not in the sexy way,” he warned, still slurring half his words.

“Only if you join me.”

“THAT FUCKING SGHWIOER HAD BETTER BE FREEZIZING.”

“Colder than your blood,” I assured him, “Promise.  Join me.”

“Fiiiiine, you nmeedy abstard.  I’m bringing th’whip anyway.”

“But that’s why you love me!” I said, “That an th’leg sit.”

And then both of us would have gone to bed without having done anything and we'd wake up with his feet on my legs, the two of us slightly hungover.

"For the love of— _Jack_?"

"Nnngh no, you're soft, come back—"

"I am _not_ soft so get your icy little feet away from me!"

"...oh _shit_."

The story’s all hypothetical, of course.

From there, I  _guess_  living together would be inevitable.  A-after all, it would be utterly unfair for Jack to have such a nice, cozy bed to himself.

I would have started doing his laundry.

“Can you please, _please_ stop leaving your damn shirts all over the floor?   _I am not your maid_.”

“Can you please,  _please_  stop turning on the heat at butt-o’clock in the morning?  I’M GOING TO OVERHEAT.”

“I turn it down at night!  It’s not my fault anything _above zero degrees_ is too hot for you.  Why can’t you appreciate me for once?”

“It’s not  _my_  fault anything below zero degrees is too  _cold_  for you.  It’s hot enough with global warming!  DO YOU  _REALLY_  NEED ARTIFICIAL HEAT TO GO WITH IT?”

“WELL MAYBE I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE TEMPERATURE AND I JUST LIKE FIGHTING WITH YOU BECAUSE IT TURNS ME ON.  I mean.”

“YEAH?  WELL MAYBE IF YOU WOU—what.”

Our physical fights would become more and more like the banter of a married couple.

“So it’s all your fault.  All of this is your fault, then.  Look what you did.”

 “I do a lot of things,” I hissed, “I do the laundry.  And the dishes.  And I clean.  And you can’t even show up for dinner without getting half the snow from outside  _inside_.”

“…okay, what about your nightmares?  I’m pretty sure those  _aren’t_  house pets.”

“I’m not allowed to keep a pet or two?  Come on, Jack.  They’re house-trained.”

“...’a pet or two’ does not equal filling the garage with nightmares.  I think the neighbours are getting suspicious.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Like they  _haven’t_  been suspicious that the home is a winter wonderland all seasons of the year.”

“...I think mysterious sounds in the garage outweigh the weather.”

“Jack.  There is snow on the lawn in the middle of summer and it  _snows inside the house_.  I just tell them you’re working on the car, anyway.  It’s not like they know when you’re not home—you always leave through the windows and _let the cold air in_.  MiM, would it _kill_ you to remember to close the damn _windows_.”

“If I don’t leave the windows open, I might overheat!  And, and what about  _you_  — you leave little bits of black sand _everywhere_.  Do you know what that’s doing to the shower drain?”

I cocked my head to the side aggressively.  “Shut me up, then.”

“….Fine.  You have thirty seconds to get in here or I’m breaking every single tile without you.”  Jack jabbed a thumb in the direction of the shared bathroom.

“Demanding little shit.”

“Okay,  _rude_.”

And I’d do more laundry.

“HOW MANY HOODIES DO YOU HAVE—I swear this is the last time I’m doing your laundry.  This time.  I _swear_.”

“ _Not enough_ ,” the little shit smirked.  “Yeah, okay—you said that last time.  And the time before.  And the time before that,” he winked at me cheekily, “Don’t put too much detergent in this time, _thanks_ , love you~!”

“Did I  _ask_  for sass with my dinner?  I WILL SHRINK EVERYTHING YOU LOVE.”

Jack would cook the occasional meal.  You’d think he’d be against doing something like that but the alternative would have been much worse, as he soon found out.

“Bi—Pitch!  I want a burger!  _Make me a burger_!”

I stormed into the room.  “What if I make it from ground _Jack_ meat?” I growled.

He patted my face.  “We both know that’s not going to happen.  Go, go!”

“No!  I really...I really don’t think this is a good idea.”  I glanced warily at the kitchen as though the thought of cooking alone would set it on fire.

“Pleeeease?  I’ll think about shutting a window or two tonight?”  He batted his lashes at me.

I threw a cushion at him.  “You’re going to regret this.  I’m going to scramble eggs...then...” I trailed off, unsure of myself.

Ten minutes and a fire alarm later, Jack stood in the kitchen with me.  I had no idea what was in the pan anymore, but it wasn’t eggs.  Whatever it was, it was frozen solid now.

"How.  How did you—I didn't even know—is that actually—" Jack inhaled sharply, "...Pitch.  If you can turn eggs into that, I think you'd have been an asset to the alchemists who were trying to turn things into gold."

"...er, thank—"

"Or shit."

"..."

"Yeah, I think you'd have turned things into shit."

After that first time, he never asked me to cook again.  But...

"So we've finally agreed that you're going to cook and I'm never going to touch a cooking utensil again."

"Yes."

"Okay.  Care to enlighten me about why I'm the one in the frilly apron?"

"Youuu...look...good in it."

"I  _hate_  you."

We would also show our appreciation for Pixar films.

"Pitch?  Where's my staff?

"What?"

" _Where is my staff?_ "

"I, uh, put it away."

"Where?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"I need it!"

"Oh no, don't you think about running off doing any Guardian business.  We've been planning this dinner for two months!"

"The children are in danger!"

"My evening's in danger!"

"You tell me where my staff is, Pitch!  We are talking about restoring fun!"

"'Restoring fun?'  I am your wi—husband!  I'm the most fun you are ever going to get!"

"...should have said 'wife'."

"Shut up."

"You pretty much are, though."

"Shut  _up_."

Right.  If that's not unbelievable enough, let's just consider how grating it would be to live with the guy.  You know, on a daily basis.  As in,  _every day_.

Every morning, waking up to small, icy toes creeping up your leg like Death coming to get you.  Did I set my alarm to "GET YOUR UGLY FACE OUT OF MY FACE"?  No, I didn't.  And  _darling_ , my face is in your face because you moved it there in your sleep.  I know because I'm a terribly light sleeper and Jack could—in this hypothetical situation—snore the Apocalypse into existence.

(And while said Apocalypse is occurring, his feet would  _still_  be glued to my leg.  He has something of a sick fascination with my legs and the slit in my cloak.)

* * *

All right, I've had enough.  I'm just going to butt in now because I think the story is getting a tiny bit biased.

Pitch wouldn't be the _only_ one making sacrifices.  I mean, think about it.  I'm a  _Guardian_  and he's the bad guy.

* * *

"Bad guy".

* * *

Bad guy.

 _If_  we did live together, we wouldn't have told the other Guardians.  And in that case, I'd have to constantly explain why there's nightmare sand on—oh, just about everything I own.

Every damn thing.

"Jack, what is this?  Is that Pitch's sand?  Are you okay?  Did he go after you?  Did he hurt you?"

"No, I...was flying over a beach with blackish sand...and fell in it...and decided to make a sand angel—hey look is that Sandy I'm gonna go say hi!  Bye!"

Really, Pitch, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were  _marking your territory_.

Not that I am his territory.  This is all hypothetical, like he said.

"Jack, there's sand in your hair again!  Are you sure—"

"I found it.  I just.  Found it."

“O-okay.”

* * *

Windows!  What about the windows?  It could be below freezing—I'm not going to specify because Jack uses Fahrenheit and I've grown accustomed to Centigrade—and he'd have half the windows in the house wide open.

One frozen man in the home is enough—we don't need two.

 _Snowballs_ do not equal "fun times" for me, all right, Jack?

* * *

What—no, you're not allowed to tell all the stories.  I wanna, um, "make one up".

Okay, so there was this time—there was a sign on our roof—

Pitch is glaring at me because my storytelling skills are so pro.

Okay, so once upon a time blah blah blah...

This one has to do with the windows.  We were arguing, you know, like usual.

“PITCH, STOP DIRTYING UP THE SHOWERS.”

“You know you liiiike it.”

“But _there’s only so much the water can get rid of_.  YOU’RE GONNA STAIN THE TILE.”

“The tiles are all cracked because of you anyway.”

“It’s not my fault they’re fragile—DON’T TURN THIS ON ME,” I huffed.  Attractively.

“It wouldn’t be a problem if the tiles didn’t keep freezing and warming up and freezing.   _I wonder whose fault that is, hmm_.”

“...I...have no idea.  Where did you get that thought?” I laughed falsely, “That’s...silly.  You’re silly, Pitch.  _Silly you_.”

“I heard you shower last night, you can’t lie to me!”

“Uh.  Uhhh.  That was...someone else.  The otherfrost spirit.”

I’d seen them, the doppelgangers that all the Guardians had—there were even multiple Pitches sometimes.  I just pretend that they’re from alternate universes.  I mean, I’m probably right.

Pitch didn’t look amused.  “You let another Jack in my shower at night?!”  Then he jerked as though he’d suddenly thought of something.  “So it wasn’t you, _crap_.”

“Well, they kind of climb in through the window,” I shrugged, “I can’t stop them.”  Belatedly, his words registered.  “Wait, what do you mean—what...what did you _do_...”

Pitch was clearly dodging the question.  “Is there a _sign_ on my home that says “JACKS PLEASE BUST IN” or something?”

“I—I did nothing, it’s all a lie.  Don’t listen to him.”  I was referring to the other Jack.

Because I didn’t put that sign on the room as a joke.

Nope, never happened.

I fumed at him anyway.  “Oh my God, Pitch, you can’t just—fuck around with another me!  I mean, it’s me, but it’s not _me_.”

“I did not—fuck around with another you.  And in case you forgot, I didn’t even get to fuck _you_ that first night!”

Then we, um, “made up”.  Don’t ask me how, I’ll tell you when you’re older.  Like...300 years or so?

After that night, the incident with the sign was mostly forgotten.  Until...

“...did I ever tell you about that time I tried to spit fire during a windstorm?” I asked conversationally.  I’m really good with small talk, really.

Pitch snorted, “Were you trying to set fire to the rain?”

“ _Apparently_ ,” I laughed, “Took weeks for my eyelashes to grow back.”

“That was an Adele ref—eyelashes,” he deadpanned.

Yes, I got the reference, thank you, Pitch.  I was just...thinking about my eyelashes.

“WATCHED IT BURN AS I TOUCHED YOUR FACE,” I sang as I grabbed at his face.  “Well, I mean, I only lost half of them.”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY FACE.”  Pitch flailed and batted my hands away.  He shook his head, “How are your eyes okay?”

“There was an eyebrow involved too...sheer dumb luck,” I laughed.

“This isn't a fashion statement.”  He raised the skin above his eye pointedly—as if I could ever forget that he didn’t have eyebrows. 

I’d call him eyebrowless, but then he’d go and call me pantless—and he’s not talking about the pants I hold up with a belt.

(Hint: Pitch has an English accent—work it out.)

“Mine were stolen,” he jokingly insisted.

“Yeah, _sure_ they were.”

“They were.  I didn't lose them.”

I know him well enough to know that he was implying that it was more something I’d do—losing my eyebrows.  Ex _cuse_ me.

“Sure you didn't miss while shaving?”

He gave me a flat look.  “Yes.  I was trying to shave my _eyelashes_ —”

“Do you know how much eyebrows are worth on the black market?!”

“—and missed.”

“That explains a lot.”

“I thought you were a good example, what with burning them off and all,” he drawled sarcastically.

“They grew back!”  I threw my arms out to emphasise my point...or something.  “Can _you_ say the same?”

“Maybe I like it this way,” he said, wiggling his face from side to side in that way that he does to make a point.  “What, you think I just...miss every day?”

I snickered.  “The latter seems more likely.  Maybe your aim just sucks.”

“No, your aim sucks.”  Oh, smooth retort, Pitch.  “Maybe I’m too busy yelling at you to make the coffee for once.”

“My aim's spot on, you get out.”  I happened to be drinking coffee, which was perfect for the situation.  I lifted the mug.  “This coffee I’m drinking?  It’s really good.  Fucking _great_.”

He visibly fumbled for words.  “I—drunk night!”

“MY AIM IS NOT IMPACTED BY DRUNK NIGHT.”

“Oh really?”  Pitch looked me up and down.  “You should prove it.”

“Yeah?  Really?  Sure you don’t want to prove it with _the other Jacks_?  IS THE SIGN STILL UP—GO TAKE THE SIGN DOWN.”

“Okay!”  Pitch threw his hands up in frustration and exasperation and other things that end in –ation.  With a violent wave of his hand, a flurry of sand attacked the sign on our roof.

The sign was utterly decimated.  Unfortunately, so was half the roof.

“ _Why the roof?_ ” I cried.

The asshole dusted off his hands.  “There we go.”

I gaped for a moment before realising something.  “Well at least it's not hot anymore.”

“...damn it.  I should have thought this through.”

And now there's a hole in our roof and I'll never let him forget how he let in the  _wrong Jack_.

* * *

Jack  _also_  never lets me forget his coffee addiction.

If I have to hear 'make me coffee' one more time, I will drow—oh.  I can't say that word.

(Not that I care, but.)

I'd put that coffee mug where the sun don't shine.

I tried putting arsenic in his coffee once.  Good fun, that was.

* * *

Once I froze his coffee because he was being annoying.

Okay, more than once.

* * *

I publicly called your staff a glitter wand.

* * *

Are we not pretending this isn't happening anymore?

* * *

No, I suppose not.  You stopped first, though.

* * *

Did not.

* * *

Did too.

* * *

Did  _not_!

* * *

_Did_ —

* * *

This happens a lot, by the way.

* * *

But he still makes room for me in bed every night and I still make two cups of coffee every morning.

⁞

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  In case you didn’t realise, this is essentially an abridged compilation of all the RotG-related inside jokes that Wind and I have.
> 
> Happy Valentine’s, you little shit.


End file.
